


Once Upon Another Time

by madame_faust



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Beta Read, Not Own Voices, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26514418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: Assorted Phantom-related one-shots collected from Tumblr.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian
Comments: 18
Kudos: 29





	1. Smile (Leroux-inspired)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "How about Erik getting all feelingsy when he catches Christine smile?"

The first time it happened he was taken aback. He’d said something - an observation about the density of the managers’ heads or something biting and acerbic - and she’d smiled. Briefly, for she was of a kinder nature than he and thought it rude to mock her employers openly. But she’d smiled. At a remark _he’d_ made. 

She smiled often - pleasant smiles of closed teeth and plump lips directed at strangers on the street. Broad smiles for her young sailor. And sometimes she smiled at nothing at all. Her lips would part, exposing her teeth and then curl upward at the edges.

“What are you thinking of?” he asked once, wishing to bottle that expression, but failing that, desperate to know its source.

“Oh!” her lips parted more widely, the expression was lost. “Nothing. Nothing in particular.”

Yes, she smiled often. But rarely at him. When he tried to conjure one up, he often failed.

Compliments made her blush. Their humor was dissimilar and his jokes made her distressed. Her smiles, ephemeral, fleeting, were what he sought. 

Even now, repeated witticisms (well, _he_ thought they were funny) about various company members led to her lowering her eyes, shrugging her shoulders, and finally chiding him with a soft, “I’m sure they’re doing their best.”

Frustrated that his efforts were seemingly in vain, Erik withdrew from her side and took to his piano. He played not for her in particular, but to sooth his nerves - his temper only produced tears and even more than wanting to see her smile, he was determined never to make her cry again. So he played, to give himself an occupation and steady his nerves, frayed from a lifetime of grief.

Grimly, he reflected, it was fitting, was it not? That he who was gloom and darkness and misery, might try so hard to produce mirth and pleasure from another. The last woman he’d successfully made smile was the little Sultana. And Christine was as different from her as the sun was from the moon.

He paused in his playing and heaved a sigh. 

“Do you feel better?” 

She stood before him, hands clasped demurely in front of her, head cocked to the side. And smiling.

Erik looked up, awed and perplexed. _How?_ When he had not even been _trying._

“Are you?” she asked again.

Dumbly, he could only nod his head slightly, unwilling to move too much or speak, fearful of breaking the spell.

The smile widened, a bright light in a dark room.

“You were so out of sorts earlier. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

Then she moved away, taking her smile with her. 


	2. Paint (ALW-Inspired)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Erik being absolutely enthralled every time he watches Christine put on stage make-up and one day she asks him to do it for her?"

It was the little things that made her so beautiful. Anyone (well…nearly anyone) might have two eyes, a nose, a mouth in their proper places, in the proper form and look perfectly well. But the scattering of freckles on her nose, the scar the bisected her right eyebrow, the fact that the set of her chin was ever so slightly askew, giving her a charmingly crooked smiles…those were the things that made Christine Daae extraordinary.

And those were the things which were dutifully covered beneath greasepaint, rouge, and kohl. Once the freckles disappeared beneath a mask as white as his own, her eyebrows were darkened, her lashes blackened, lips painted red, over the line where her natural lip-line ended and her cheeks made rosy. Then the lot was powdered and set and Christine was gone, changed to fit in exactly with the other chorus girls, a peg in a hole.

Once the performance was concluded, she would emerge again, Christine, unique imperfections gloriously bared and scrubbed clean.

Until they were covered up again. It was a fascinating process. A few sponges, a brush, a puff or two of powder and Christine disappeared. It was as fine a magic trick as any he might have devised with hidden wires and secret pockets.

Fitting, perhaps that one day she looked at him and asked, “Help me? I always have trouble around my eyes.”

He hesitated, finding it profane to cover up a face which he found so lovely. But the footlights beckoned and they were running out of time.

He sat before her, holding the little application stick delicately between his fingers, looking not at Christine’s bright and sparkling eyes, but the flesh around them which crinkled when she smiled.

“You look so serious!” she exclaimed. “It’s only a bit of make-up.”

“I want to do you justice,” he replied, admittedly seriously. 

Christine recognized the sincerity in his voice and in his eyes so she schooled her face into indifference. With the precision of a surgeon and the passion of an artist, he gently rimmed her eyes in black. From this close he could see that far from obscuring her eyes, the darkness made them all brighter.

“There,” he said, drawing back, surveying his handwork critically. “Done.”

Turning to survey herself in the glass, Christine crowed over what a fine job he’d done. 

“Thank you,” she said, rising from her dressing table, taking advantage of his still-seated position to kiss his cheek. She left a smear of red behind. “I look perfect!”

No, not quite. Perfection would come later, when she returned and scrubbed herself clean and smiled her crooked smile. Until then, he would let the stage have her. He would shroud himself in the darkness of Box 5 and watch her perform with pleasure, reflecting on how best to phrase one of his helpful little suggestions to nudge her into a larger part in the next opera. 

For the next two hours, she belonged to her audience. But once she was here - they were both there - back in the sanctuary of her dressing room, she would once again shed the artifice of the chorus and become his Christine.


	3. Burn (Modern Leroux AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "The Daroga makes Erik go to the beach"

“I’m going to _burn_ ,” Erik moaned, slouching down in the back of Raoul’s Jeep Wrangler (as much as he could slouch, he rarely disclosed his exact height, but ‘tall as fuck’ seemed to cover it). “I’m going to _burn_ and I’m going to get a questionable _mole_ and I’m going to have to get it _scooped_ and then I literally won’t have a face left at _all_.”

A bottle of Coppertone hit him in the chest, thrown by a very unsympathetic Christine. 

“SPF 50, baby!” she crowed, hefting two beach chairs over her arms. “Come on! Grab the blanket, make yourself useful.”

“I wanna be in the air-conditioning,” Erik mock-sobbed, sounding and appearing for all intents and purposes, like a tall, skinny baby. A baby with giant Anna Wintour sunglasses and an obvious facial prosthetic, but a baby nevertheless.

“It’s cooler by the water,” Raoul promised, grabbing a surfboard (could he BE a bigger cliche) and the cooler. “Once you’re by the water and under the umbrella, you’ll feel better.”

Dalir was the second to last to leave the car, he had the aforementioned umbrella over one shoulder and two more beach chairs in his other arm. 

“Move it or lose it, babe. You can either get a sunburn in the car or a sunburn on the sand, your choice.”

“You all _hate_ me,” Erik groused. But he did get out of the car - and he grabbed the beach blanket.

They formed an odd little gang, walking down the plank board walk, half covered in sand, to the private beach near Raoul’s parents’ summer home. Erik agreed to go away for the weekend for the promise of a hammock and an endless pitcher of margaritas with his name on it. The beach was part of it in a purely aesthetic sense - a glimmer of blue that he could draw inspiration from for the photography portfolio he was supposed to put together for finals. 

Yet his best friend - and more to the point, his boyfriend - thought his appreciation should go beyond mere aesthetics. And that was how he found himself walking down to the beach looking like a grande dame out of an episode of Dynasty. He found an honest-to-God kaftan in one of the guest rooms and insisted on wearing it plus a big floppy hat. 

Underneath, in a nod to convention (and Dalir’s insistence), he was wearing a bathing suit. But he never intended to remove his outer garb lest he blind the beachgoers with the shocking sight of his ghostly pale and bony chest. 

Admittedly, it was cooler near the water. And since they steered clear of the cabanas, there weren’t too many people near them, aside from the odd family building sandcastles with a toddler or teaching slightly older kids to boogie board in the smaller waves near the shore. 

Raoul barely set the cooler down before he was off to ride the waves and Christine was off into the water a scant second later, pausing only to ask Erik to hold her glasses before she took off after him, squinting due to the sun and myopia.

With a sigh, Erik threw himself dramatically into a beach chair as Dalir set the umbrella up, directly behind him. He hadn’t brought his camera - who wanted to watch bougie families enjoy a day in the sun? And was instead preparing to drown his unhappiness in a William Ritter novel and one of the mixed drinks they’d smuggled onto the beach in a water bottle when Dalir sat down next to him, in the shade.

“What are you doing?” Erik asked, looking down at him over the tops of his editor-in-chief shades. “Aren’t you going to…swim? Or frolic? Or whatever you do in this Frankie Avalon hellscape?”

Dalir put his hands behind his head and sprawled out, looking as contented and relaxed as could be. “I’m good.”

No. No he could not possibly be good. 

“You said you wanted to go to the _beach_ ,” Erik reminded him incredulously. “You insisted on it, in fact.”

“Nope,” Dalir shook his head, eyes still closed. There was an infuriatingly smug smile lurking around his mouth. At least, it would be infuriating if it didn’t deepen his dimples. The adorable bastard. “I said I wanted to go to the beach with _you_.”

A strange little choking sound emerged from Erik’s mouth; it wasn’t often that he was speechless, but when he was, it was usually Dalir’s fault.

The smug look deepened. He opened one green eye and gazed mischievously at Erik. “So. Like I said. I’m good.”

It wasn’t fair. It was absolutely unjust that Dalir should get the last word. Erik wouldn’t allow it. 

“Oh,” he said, once he regained the ability to speak. “Well. That’s…nice.”

Then, before Dalir could reply with anymore dazzlingly romantic speeches (he was a man of few words, but _what_ words!) Erik took it upon himself to pounce on him, breaking one of the Chagny family’s beach chairs and scandalizing the sandcastle families as he leapt out of his seat covered Dalir’s mouth with his own.


	4. Stacks (Charles Dance AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Something lighthearted with Cherik and Christine, but maybe one of them is a librarian?"

Madame Carlotta might not have required rehearsal, but she did require a libretto to learn the lyrics of _Norma_. Early on in her employment, Christine realized that despite Philippe’s assurances, singing lessons were beyond her reach. Still, she did not turn her nose up at what M and Mme Choletti assured her was a generous offer of being a costume assistant. How could she? She had nowhere else to go. 

Still, it wasn’t all bad, she reassured herself. The Palais Garnier was so beautiful. And it was full of music - when Madame Carlotta was not singing, the music was actually quite good. And if Christine found herself humming a gentle tune as she made her way to the Opera’s extensive library, well, so much the better.

It was lonely and dark in the building when rehearsal broke up and the singers and dancers went home. They none of them spoke to her - the chorus girls scorned her and pitied her in turn, so it was hardly a loss. But the murmur of voices was a comfort, even if none of them addressed her. Ever since she lost dear Papa, silence only made her afraid and terribly, terribly sad. 

So she hummed to herself. Sang quietly, under her breath. Then more loudly when she arrived in the library proper. 

Christine caught her breath. Such a homely room! The wooden floors and shelves gleamed with polish, but there no velvet curtains or golden arches. Just tall shelves, built into the walls climbing up high, high over her head. The soles of her boots tapped lightly upon the floors. The smell of paper and leather combined with the floor polish to tickle her nose; she sneezed and made her presence known to the wing’s sole occupant.

“May I help you, mademoiselle?”

It was a man’s voice - soft, gentle, but with a lovely resonance that came from above; for a second she was thrust back into the world of her childhood and a different voice, Papa’s voice, sounded in her ears -

_“Ah, the angel of music, daughter mine! When he sings the Heavens tremble! But when he speaks, his voice is gentle as a dove…”_

Christine turned her head this way and that, but could not pinpoint the source of the voice. 

“I beg you…where are you?” she asked.

A long hesitation, then again, softer still. “Can…how may I help you, mademoiselle?”

There was a second floor, she realized. A balcony upon with the man must be standing. Quickly, Christine hastened to get a look at him, but it was darker above; all she managed to pick out was the outline of a man, impossibly tall from her vantage point, his face was completely obscured in shadow, but his long-fingered, elegant hands were folded neatly in front of him, thumbs twiddling. In annoyance, she assumed. He must be a librarian. 

“Oh! I…” So thrown was she by this strange encounter that she quite forgot her purpose. Lowering her eyes and feeling every bit the ninny the chorus girls took her for she said, “I…that is to say, Madame Carlotta has asked me to fetch her the libretto for _Norma_. That she might study it.”

The second pause was longer than the first. “Surely she was given her sides at rehearsal.”

Christine could not stop the ironic twist to her mouth though she kept her gaze downward so the man above her could not see. “Madame Carlotta does not believe in attending rehearsals.”

To her great surprise the man with the angelic voice let out a decidedly _un_ -angelic derisive laugh. “Ha! Does she not? Well, _that_ explains a great many things.”

Footsteps retreated away from her. Christine glanced around at some of books, protected by glass-fronted doors affixed to the shelves. Volumes on composition and theory, she thought; she did read, though her formal education had been spotty. Papa thought it enough that she could read music and the Bible; what better language could one have use for?

“Mademoiselle?” 

The voice again; closer this time, right around the corner. When Christine rounded the corner into a small reading nook she gasped aloud, then blushed at her own foolishness. Once again her eyes were upon the floor in embarrassment, but not before she’d seen the man to whom she had been speaking.

He was very tall, just as she thought. Broad-shouldered and wearing a neat fawn-colored suit with an arrow collar and cravat. There was nothing unusual in his attire - but his face! He had none. Just a while mask which covered the lot, brow to jaw, leaving only a small opening for his mouth. 

Christine was mortified for reacting so; likely it covered an injury and she ought not make a fuss about it. Everyone about the Opera already thought she was a country bumpkin; now they would think she was rude as well.

The man reacted with good grace however. “I’ve left a copy of the libretto on the table, mademoiselle. I, ah, hesitate to trust Madame Carlotta with an original.”

Under his breath, but still loud enough so Christine could hear, he added, “She’s going to absolutely slaughter ‘Casta Diva.’”

She let out a rather un-angelic giggle at that herself and chanced to raise her eyes again. Really, the man’s appearance upon second glance was not so very shocking - he boasted a head of bright red hair and, funnily enough, wore round little spectacles perched on the nose of his mask. The Opera House was full of characters.

Christine stepped forward to pick up the libretto, hugging it to her chest. “Thank you so much, Monsieur…”

“You may call me…Erik is…perfectly alright,” he said - and he seemed to have just as much trouble as she did, keeping his eyes from the floor. Christine bit her lip, feeling dreadful - he must have thought he frightened her! “And your…what is your name, Mademoiselle? Forgive me, I…don’t believe we’ve met.” 

“We haven’t! I…you must call me Christine,” she said, stepping forward, but why she did not know; her arms were full and she could not have shaken his hand even if he’d offered it, which he had not. Perhaps just to show that she was not afraid. “Though I’m not…anybody. Not anybody at all.”

He looked her in her eyes then - such beautiful eyes he had! Almost as beautiful as his voice, a green as dark as a forest, shot through with gold. 

“Well, that isn’t true,” he said, his voice so warm and gentle. “Of course you’re somebody. You’re Christine. You’ve just told me.” 

It cut through her, almost painfully. This man - Erik - was the first person connected with the Opera who’d spoken to her. Who’d called her by her name, not ‘girl’ or ‘mademoiselle,’ and it made her want to cry, it was so kind.

But of course he would not speak to her kindly if she burst into tears. And so, as she had when she sold her family’s meager belongings to pay for her father’s burial and her train ticket to Paris, she blinked back her tears and smiled blandly, though her heart was hammering like mad behind the libretto. She was grateful to hold its weight in her arms to keep her hands from shaking.

“Thank you,” she said again, and she meant for more than the book. “Erik. I…I’ll be sure it bring it back in good condition.”

He smiled at her, briefly, but it was a kind smile. “I have every faith that you will. Do you…I beg your pardon, but…it’s a large building and easy to get lost. Do you need any help finding your way back?”

“No,” she said, too hastily for he lowered his lovely eyes and took half a step away from her. She quickly added, “I know the way, but…some company would be nice. If…if you aren’t busy.”

“Oh, I’m not,” he said, quickly. They caught one another’s eyes and looked away at the same time - then looked at one another again and laughed. 

Erik walked ahead of her and held the door open. “After you, mademoiselle.”

“Christine,” she reminded him.

He smiled again - a gentle, wonderful smile. “Christine.”


	5. Waltz Before You Can Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a Tumblr Prompt: Erik and Christine waltzing together.

Erik and Christine waltzing together. It just always sounds so sweet and fluffy and romantic.

(I can do sweet and fluffy!)

“One…two…three. One…two…three… _ah_.”

Christine looked down in utter mortification. There, upon the once-polished toe of her Maestro’s shoes was an ugly scuff mark.

“Oh!” she cried, hopelessly miserably. “I’m so sorry!”

His mouth was concealed by his mask, but she could see his eyes crinkling up behind the eye holes and heard the smile in his voice. “Not to worry, my dear. I’ve suffered far worse. Have I ever told you about the time I had to trek fifty miles over the mountainous terrain of Persia to enact an escape from a mad despot who wanted my head?”

Christine smiled, and spoke to her Maestro’s scuffed shoes. “You said it was twenty miles over a beautiful countryside. And the first time you told the story, it was only your eyes the Shah wanted.”

Her Maestro shrugged elegantly - gracefully, as he did _everything_. And it wiped the smile from her face. There he was, a confident man of the world settled with giving dancing lessons to a country bumpkin. 

“Embellishment is the spice of life,” he drawled. Then he drew his sharp elbows back into position and commanded, “Straight back! We’ll make a debutante of you yet!”

He was so tall that her hand could not naturally rest upon his shoulder and so she gripped his spindly upper arm rather harder than necessary. Her right had was utterly swallowed up by his left and she was grateful for the gloves they both wore; she could feel the dampness of her palms, perfectly aligned with the trickle of sweat winding down her shoulder blades. 

Her Maestro was all kindness and patience. She ought to be grateful; he certainly was not so placid and encouraging during their voice lessons, but that only made her despair more. Erik was impatient with flaws in her singing because he knew she had tremendous potential to be a leading lady. Clearly, her prospects as a great dancer were somewhat more questionable.

It was not her fault, precisely. When young ladies of the quality were at finishing school learning to dance, dress, and manage a household, she was singing for her supper and nursing her father through his last illness. Dance lessons had never been part of her eccentric education. 

But there was a Masquerade Ball and she so wanted to attend. It would be her first party. She had her costume ready (second hand, but enhanced with feathers and sequins her Maestro had liberated from the costume shop on her behalf), her mask fashioned, and an empty dance card. It would never be filled if she could not master a simple waltz by Saturday. 

“Right foot back, Christine - chin up! There’s a girl. Just keep that up for the rest of the dance and you’ll do splendidly.”

The phonograph record they had been dancing two wound down, but her Maestro hummed the melody more pleasantly than the tinny recording. Christine closed her eyes and concentrated on counting. Erik’s hand was a steadying pressure round her back and when he concluded his humming of the melody, there was no second scuff to join the first.

“Much better,” he gave her a short bow and mimed kissing the back of her hand through the mask. “You only need to relax. And not take such grand strides as you were doing, you’re only meant to preform a waltz, hop over puddles in a rainstorm.”

She nodded and repeated his encouragements. Relax. Shorter steps. No hopping.

“But Maestro,” she asked, trying to maintain wide-eyed innocence, though a sly smile curled her lips. “What if the band strikes up a polka?”

Only a very little of her Maestro’s neck was visible above the collar of his shirt and the flesh she could see was quite pale. After her inquiry, it turned ashen.

“Ah, well,” he glanced down at his shoes, seemingly giving them up as hopeless. “One must waltz - pardon me, _walk_ \- before one can run. Or polka.”


	6. Extraordinary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on the Tumblr Prompt: Cherik being adored.

The concertmaster at the Garnier was an impossibly young man with the stature of the general manager and the bright red hair of the retired prima ballerina. Naturally there was talk - rehashing of a scandal decades-old, complaints of nepotism and the disgrace of a national institution. Not to mention the _mask_.

As though a white leather mask could conceal from the staff at the opera house the distinct similarities between the (unmarried) manager and his latest orchestra acquisition. They were the tallest men at the Opera by far and they shared the same striking hazel-green eyes. It was inappropriate in the extreme to position the boy so highly. Why not a lower place? When there were others who had worked for the Opera far longer and were so much more experienced?

It was preposterous that none of the orchestra had complained. At least so the rest of the company thought, until they heard him _play_. 

A flawless technique. Nuanced dynamics. And a feeling, a passion, a soulfulness that took decades to bring to a performance. All from this young man who had been nowhere. Lived hardly at all. And yet he could produce such music as captured his audience utterly.

Soon the gossip that swirled around the young M. Carriere (Christened Gerard, but called Erik as an affectionate nickname) was quite different. Rather than _scandal_ and _shame_ , worlds like _virtuoso_ and _genius_ were trotted about. Instead of umbrage over nepotism, prayers were raised to the Almighty over how lucky they were to have him. When he might have gone to London. To Vienna. To Milan. Anywhere. And yet he seemed content to stay at the Paris Opera.

Such a humble young man he was too! Gratefully accepting of praise and adulation as though he didn’t realize he deserved it. So polite, but, if one managed to draw him into longer conversation, possessed of a quick and ready wit. A delightful conversationalist and talented musician. What a shame that he did not go about in society more! 

As to the matter of the mask? Well, an eccentricity. Jean-Claude, mumbled something here and there about an injury or defect of some sort, but the illustrious artistes in their grand salons dismissed the idea as silly gossip. Jealousy, probably. It was a mere affectation. For with such beautiful eyes and striking form, how could he not have a face to match?

It was his devotion to his craft that led him to cover himself, that was all. A desire that the world not adore him for his handsome face, but for the loveliness and mastery of his art.

All quite as it should be. All very admirable and - dare one say? - romantic. 

Yes, the new concertmaster was quite extraordinary. In every possible way.


	7. Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a Tumblr Prompt, "H/C where Christine is having a lesson with Erik being very focused and strict but she's having just a Really Bad Day, Actually?" but it actually wound up being about Erik being a better person? **Warning: For References to Self-Harm.**

He ought to have known from the warm-up scales that something was amiss. Christine’s throat was tight, her neck was tense and her breathing shallow. He chalked it up to weariness and bade her _concentrate_ in a tone which commanded attention and obedience. The dear girl tried, but _failed_ in a manner which was intensely frustrating to her teacher.

This was nothing new, no piece beyond her standard repertoire. And so his mind began to conjure up reasons for her inattention, her fidgeting and her stiff neck. Not enough rest. Awake, too late into the night. Presumably enjoying the company of her young chap. A feeble excuse for a pathetic performance.

The last he might have said aloud and not thought in the dark recesses of his mind. He could overlook their dalliance so long as it did not interfere with _his_ work. Her voices was the clay, his the mind that moulded it into perfection. If the clay was exhausted and inattentive, however, even a master’s skill could only accomplish so much. 

He closed the piano’s lid quite forcefully and told her that was quite enough for the day. More than he was willing to bear. There was nothing more he could teach her. 

He had been expecting a relieved sigh. Or perhaps a slump to her shoulders and a promise to do better in future. What he was _not_ expecting (and what actually happened) was for his protege to burst into noisy tears.

“I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. “So, very sorry Maestro!” 

And then an explanation poured out of her. Her guardian was unwell. In fact, she’d not seen her little chap in well over two weeks. The only thing that took her from the old woman’s side were rehearsals. And their lessons.

An ice-cold trick ran down Erik’s spine. A leak in the ceiling? Ah, no, that uncomfortable, foreign, little feeling was _guilt_. Dreadful thing. Must be assuaged as soon as possible.

And so he took her gently by the elbow. Guided her into his best armchair (the Daroga’s armchair). Bade her put her feet on a footstool, wrapped a quilt round her shoulders, and brewed a hot cup of tea while she sniffled and hiccuped and begged his pardon.

_His_ pardon. What a thing to ask. He ought to have been debasing himself upon his knees before her for having treated her with such thoughtless, sneering dismissal. But Christine was a good, sweet girl who only reacted with horror at displays of debasement. Very unlike his mother who wept, or the little Sultana who laughed. 

No, there could be no head-slamming or flesh-rending, or mimicries or ripping one’s still-beating heart out of one’s chest to appease her. Instead a warm blanket, some hot tea, and...yes, the violin. Just the thing. 

The piano’s purpose was instructive. The violin served only to bring pleasure. He thought to play some chipper piece of Mozart’s, but decided against the Classical as being too technical, the Romantic as too overwrought, the Baroque was right out. Something light, melodic, and simple.

He weaved forth folk music, instrumental pieces with no words, but plenty of room for improvisation. Or pieces whose bawdy humor was woven into the sound of the strings themselves. Music to dry her tears. Music to make her smile. 

And she did. She tucked her chin down into the blanket he’d wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl, sipped her tea as he redness slowly faded from her eyes and nose. When he concluded, she smiled. And thanked him. And insisted she must get back to her guardian. 

Erik was no physic. His was a haphazard sort of battlefield knowledge of medicine. But he had money. And if Christine left a few napoleons richer when she came, ready to pay for the more expensive drugs the chemist recommended, so much the better. 


	8. Masquerade (Carlotta/Christine)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For bluemasque86 on Tumblr who wanted to see some Carlotta/Christine ficlet (we stan a butch diva).

It was the talk of the Masquerade when the Opera’s reigning diva made a grand entrance clad in a gentleman’s evening suit and a black domino mask by way of a costume. 

Not since the appearance of the red-clad figure with the macabre skeleton’s head had there been such a stir. There were titters, murmurs, a few appreciative wolf-whistles (the suit was exquisitely tailored and flattered La Carlotta’s ample curves whilst projecting an air of refined masculinity), and some shocked commentary about _permits_ and _fines_.

But this was the annual masque, a time for pushing the boundaries of acceptability and good taste. After all, if there was a place at the Masquerade for a man who had painted himself purple from head to foot, crowned himself with laurel leaves and drunkenly declared himself, ‘Dionysus, King of the Bacchanal!’ (he did not come to every annual Masquerade, but when he did, it was a treat), then there was a place for a woman with short-cropped red hair and silk trousers. Permit or no permit.

Eyed askance and appreciatively, the crowd held its breath as the band struck up a waltz and La Carlotta’s searching brown eyes seemed to scan the crowd - only the young ladies, as though the gentlemen did not exist…or as though she considered herself the only gentleman there. Finally she approached young Daae, who herself had donned trousers many a-time upon the stage, but tonight was clad in sparkling regalia, a princess of the stars and moon. 

La Carlotta bowed elegantly and asked, “May I have this dance?”

Young Daae gave over her handback and glittering silver mask to her escort - the Vicomte de Chagny who seemed neither disapproving nor surprised at having been thrown over for such a partner. La Carlotta took the girl’s hand in one kidskin glove and led her in the dance. 

They were a striking pair, the short, plump prima donna and the tall, Nordic chorus girl; there was not such a crush upon the dance floor that they became one with the crowd; indeed, that did not seem to be the point. They were a pair that invited notice, but ignored the stares. At one point La Carlotta whispered something into young Daae’s ear and the girl’s pale skin blushed scarlet. The crowd could only wonder and marvel at them, their beauty, and their courage.

The waltz ended, as all waltzes did. La Carlotta handed young Daae back to the Vicomte, but not without pressing a genteel kiss to the back of her hand. Again, the girl blushed and thanked her partner for the dance.

Some would call it a shameful scandal, others a delightful novelty. The gossip rags wrang a fortnight’s worth of content out of the scene, but those at the Masqurade recalled that after her turn about the floor with young Daae, La Carlotta did not want for eager partners the rest of the evening.


End file.
